The Villainous Marquis Is Obsessed With Me

Chapter 84: Always Be By Your Side

"Hey, Penny?"

Penelope’s eyes snapped open, and she immediately sat upright on the bed as if she had been doused with freezing water.

She gasped for air, her breath coming in shallow, ragged pants as her heart hammered violently against her rib cage. Her gaze darted frantically around the room. The suffocating heat and the stench of iron were gone; she was back in her chamber within the imperial palace. The sky outside the grand glass doors had turned completely dark, casting long, quiet shadows across the opulent room. She threw a panicked look down at her dress, but there was no blood staining the fabric, nor were there any fallen soldiers piled around her feet.

There was nothing.

Slowly, she pressed a trembling hand against her chest, trying to soothe the frantic, erratic beating of her own heart.

"Hey... are you alright?"

As if only just realizing she was not alone in the vast chamber, Penelope turned her head toward the sound of the deep, familiar voice. Vincent was sitting on the edge of the mattress beside her, his usual cool detachment entirely replaced by a look of profound worry.

She stared at him for a long, silent moment, her mind struggling to bridge the gap between the cold silhouette in her dream and the solid man sitting before her. When she finally realized he was truly here, the dam broke. She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, and this time, she was utterly unable to hold back her tears.

"You’re here," she sobbed against his shoulder. "You’re really here."

Being able to hold him now, to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest and the real, solid warmth of his body, gave her the grounding reassurance she desperately needed. It had all just been a cruel nightmare. Yet, the lingering terror of the vision was so vivid, so deeply unsettling, that she could do nothing but weep into his embrace, clinging to him as if he might disappear into the dark once more.

Vincent, stunned by the sheer desperation in her touch, immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest. He held her tightly, offering the silent, unyielding weight of his presence to anchor her, even though he had no inkling of what had caused such sudden grief.

"It’s alright," he murmured against her hair, his deep voice low and steady, a firm promise that the world inside this room was safe. "I am here now. It’s okay."

When her heavy sobs finally began to subside, Penelope pulled back just an inch. Vincent’s hands moved to her face, his thumbs gently wiping the dampness from her cheeks with a tenderness he showed to no one else. His gray eyes searched her pale features, dark with concern.

"Did something happen while I was away?" he asked quietly.

Penelope managed a small, fragile breath, shaking her head. "You are here now. That is all that matters."

A faint, teasing glint touched Vincent’s eyes, a deliberate attempt to coax her back from the edge of her distress. "Were you missing your husband that much? If you wanted to see me sooner you could have sent for me."

The lighthearted words hung in the air, but Penelope could not bring herself to mirror his amusement. She averted her gaze, looking down at the silk sheets as the vivid horror of the dream threatened to creep back into her mind.

"I had a dream," she whispered, before forcing herself to look back into his gray eyes. "There was... you were covered in blood. And when I tried to reach for you, you just kept getting farther and farther away from me. For some reason, I could not get to you. It was... it was terrifying, Vincent."

Vincent blinked, visibly stunned by the grim nature of her vision. The thought of himself walking away from her—of leaving her behind in the dark—struck a chord of genuine disbelief in him. "I kept getting away from you? Of all the absurdities... Penelope, you must know that shall never happen."

"I know," Penelope replied softly, her hand reaching up to touch his arm just to double-check that he was truly solid. "But it felt so terribly real... and knowing it was a dream does not make it any less frightening."

The fear in her voice did not sit well with Vincent; he despised seeing her so genuinely shaken.

"I will always be by your side, Penny," he uttered softly, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw to force her focus entirely on him. "I would rather be nowhere else in this world but wherever you want me to be. Dreams are naught but shadows. Do not dwell upon them, okay? I’m right in front of you, and I know for certain that I’m not drenched in blood."

Penelope chose to listen to the voice of reasoning. Vincent was right. She knew better than anyone else the depth of his devotion, and the absolute sincerity in his low, steady voice was more than enough to banish the lingering ghosts of her nightmare.

It was just a stupid nightmare.

Taking a deep breath, she wiped away the last of her lingering tears and looked at him properly. It was only now, as the fog of sleep fully cleared from her mind, that she realized he was entirely dressed for the evening.

He looked effortlessly handsome, cutting a striking figure against the dim, candlelit backdrop of the chamber. For the upcoming imperial banquet, Vincent had donned a tailored tunic of midnight-black silk, the heavy fabric structured perfectly to accentuate the broad line of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist. The high collar was trimmed with intricate silver embroidery that caught the flickering firelight, a subtle nod to the colors of House Devereux. A dark, velvet doublet was layered over it, fastened with polished silver buttons that bore his family’s crest.

His dark hair, usually falling into a casual disarray, had been brushed back, though a few rogue strands still framed his sharp, aristocratic jawline. There was a dangerous, commanding elegance to his appearance, the undeniable presence of the sole Marquis of Vandalia, yet looking down at her, his stormy-gray eyes held none of that cold edge. He looked every bit the powerful noble the court feared, but right now, he was entirely hers.

Only then did it hit Penelope that she was the only one who was not yet prepared for the evening.

She immediately rose to her feet, the sudden movement causing her head to swim for a brief second before she stabilized herself against the bedpost.

"Oh no, we are going to be late for the banquet," she cried, looking frantically toward the darkness outside the balcony doors. "I was only planning to rest for a short while, but I completely lost track of time—"

"There is still time," Vincent assured her, rising smoothly from the mattress. He reached out, catching her by the waist to slow her frantic movements, his touch a steadying force. "The heralds have not even begun the final call. Do not rush yourself. I shall wait right here for you."

At Vincent’s reassuring words, Penelope offered a breathless nod, the initial wave of panic subsiding. As if on cue, a discreet, rhythmic knock echoed against the heavy mahogany doors.

With Vincent’s permission, the doors swung inward, and the imperial maid from earlier stepped into the suite, followed by a small line of quiet attendants bearing covered silver pitchers.

"My Lord, My Lady," the maid murmured, bowing deeply. "The fresh hot water has been prepared for the Marchioness’s bath. If it pleases you, we shall begin the preparations for the banquet immediately."

Vincent gave a brief, dismissive nod to the servants before turning his gaze back to Penelope. He offered her a small, private smile, one that entirely softened his demeanor. "Go on. Take your time, Penny."

With a grateful smile, Penelope followed the maid through the arched doorway to the adjoining bath chamber. The room was already filled with a warm, fragrant steam that smelled faintly of crushed lavender and white roses. A massive, claw-foot tub carved from smooth white marble sat in the center, filled to the brim with steaming water.

The maid and her assistants moved with practiced, silent efficiency. They helped Penelope undress, handling the heavy traveling gown with immense care, before assisting her into the soothing depths of the bath. As Penelope sank into the hot water, she felt the last remnants of her nightmare finally dissolve. The servants worked quickly but meticulously, washing her hair with scented oils and gently scrubbing her skin until it glowed.

Once she emerged, wrapped in plush linens, the true transformation began. The maid led her to a grand vanity mirror to begin the elaborate process of styling her hair and selecting the finest gown for the imperial banquet, ensuring the Marchioness of Aelgard would look nothing less than breathtaking.

A couple minutes later, the doors to the inner chamber swung open with a soft murmur of heavy wood, and Penelope stepped back into the sitting room.

Vincent, who had been leaning casually against the mantel of the fireplace with his thoughts turned inward, looked up at the sound. The moment his eyes landed on her, he froze. A rare, unscripted look of complete captivation washed over his features, his gaze tracing every detail of her transformation.

The imperial dress was a masterpiece of deep silk, tailored perfectly to her silhouette and contrasting beautifully with the rich, calming tones of the Sapphire Wing. The maid had styled her hair with meticulous care, letting a few soft curls frame her face while securing the rest with delicate ornaments that caught the warm candlelight. She looked utterly regal, a striking match for the Marquis standing before her.

As Penelope approached him, a slow, breathtaking smile broke across Vincent’s lips—a warm, intimate expression reserved solely for her eyes. He stepped forward to meet her, all the cold detachment of his title entirely forgotten.

"You look beautiful," he complimented softly, his voice a low, velvety purr that seemed to reverberate in the quiet spaces of the vast room. He reached out, his long fingers gently cupping her jawline, whilst his thumb brushed over her freshly painted cheek with a possessive tenderness.

Penelope felt a sudden, familiar flutter in her chest at the raw intensity behind his words, her heart skipping a beat as she looked up into his stormy-gray eyes.

He leaned down slightly, his gaze dropping to her lips before rising back to lock onto hers, burning with an unyielding fervor.

"And you dare to welcome the thought of me distancing myself from you," he murmured, a dangerous, beautiful edge creeping into his tone. "Do you believe I am that stupid? Even in death, I don’t believe that I’d ever be able to let you go. I am that greedy."

The sheer weight of his declaration hung heavily between them, entirely banishing the last chilling remnants of her nightmare. Vincent’s grip on her tightened just a fraction, as if he were reminding both of them that she belonged to him, and he to her, completely and irrevocably.

Penelope smiled and turned away, reaching for his heavy midnight-black velvet cloak, which rested across the back of a nearby armchair.

As she lifted it, the substantial weight of the garment settled in her hands, its rich fabric catching the candlelight with a deep, matte elegance. Vincent patiently turned, lowering his broad shoulders slightly to allow her easier reach. Penelope carefully draped the velvet over him, adjusting the heavy drape so it flowed flawlessly over his doublet.

With practiced fingers, she fastened it at his shoulder using the ornate, engraved silver clasp that bore the proud crest of House Devereux. The cool charcoal and silver satin lining peeked out just enough to catch the light, perfectly complementing the silver embroidery of his collar without stealing any attention from his tunic.

Stepping back a fraction, Penelope smoothed down the heavy velvet, looking him up and down with an appreciative smile.

"There," she murmured, her eyes shining as she admired how effortlessly striking he looked. "Now the Marquis of Vandalia is truly complete."